


Double Bluff

by aurilly



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Missing Years, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark pretends to be the Covenant's brainwashed lackey. Then they partner him with "Julia Thorne" and the game is on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Bluff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelette/gifts).



> A canon divergence in which Sark was captured by the Covenant, too, instead of spending Sydney's missing years in CIA lockup.

Sark relaxed into the burly arms that gripped him on two sides. At this point in his career, he had been lumbered into enough cells to know the futility of fighting back. Without a weapon, he had little hope of overpowering such men.

But brute strength was not what he had built an international reputation on. He was certain that as soon as he was allowed to speak to whomever was holding him, he could come to some arrangement. He had stores of secrets for sale; at least one of them should be of interest to his captors. 

They threw him, with unnecessary roughness, into a small cell and locked him in. Sark calmly lay on the floor and closed his eyes for a restorative nap. There was no point in making a scene.

Someone needed to inform the prisoner in the adjacent cell of that fact. Through the thick walls, he could hear a woman railing against their captors. She kept at it for some time, hurling what he assumed from the tone were empty threats, even though he couldn’t make out the words.

He was surprised that no one had come to question him. Irina had long ago taught him how to regulate time through bodily signals, and he knew over a week had gone by. There had been no activity except someone sliding open a small window to pass through water and bread. 

Eventually, the door opened, fully. Light from the hallway flooded inside. Sark sat up and shielded his eyes, unused to the glare. Through his squint, he could make out an older, bearded fellow in a white coat. He smiled, not at all nicely, down at his prisoner. Sark smiled blandly back.

“How are you feeling today?” the man asked.

“You can dispense with the pleasantries,” Sark replied. “I have been ready and waiting to cooperate, with whomever has decided my skills, connections or knowledge are desirable.”

“Your skills, connections and knowledge, yes, are what my employers want. Your cooperation, on the other hand… Its constant and wavering readiness is no secret. It is that which I have been hired to correct.”

“Correct?”

The man smiled. “My name is Dr. Madrczyk. We will be spending a lot of time together.”

* * *

They didn’t try to change his name, he noticed. In order to leverage his network for their purposes, they needed Julian Sark, or some version of him, at least.

Far from posing a hardship, the subsequent months of conditioning were more of a holiday to Sark than anything else. He’d played the role of emotionless lackey for so long that the slow, pretended transition into something else—something less complicated—was actually rather relaxing. More like who he might have been had he ever been granted the opportunity. Far from fitting into the alias Dr. Madrczyk envisioned, Sark was was using the opportunity to try on his own reality.

The test at the end was relatively simple. They measured his brainwaves, asked questions whose answers were easy enough for his unfettered mind to deduce. He was given false missions in which he was captured or tortured, to see if he would switch sides or sell the Covenant out. 

He passed them all with praise.

Sark sat quietly during what he thought was a meeting. At the end, the doctor ushered in a new recruit, Dr. Madrczyk’s other patient. The woman in the adjoining cell. 

Sark had been feigning quiet complaisance for so long that he had almost begun to feel it. So, when Sydney Bristow walked in, his bored brain only half registered it, which gave him time to suppress the shock long before his body had a chance to make an involuntary reaction.

Sydney didn’t react either. 

They introduced her as Julia, and she wore a daft, eager-to-please smile that belonged to someone other than the irritable opponent he’d had the pleasure of fighting for years. Sark sat quietly and watched as she was told to knife a man. She did so without hesitation.

Not even the months of fruitless torture he had been subjected to during his ‘conditioning’ had made him as depressed as watching the idealistic and incorruptible Agent Bristow betray everything she stood for.

* * *

“You will have a partner on your next mission, Julian,” the doctor said soon afterwards.

Sark hesitated convincingly before answering, “With whom?”

“Julia Thorne, the young woman you saw inducted last week.”

“Pretty,” Sark replied disaffectedly, as though her face had ever been her most interesting quality. “What is the objective?”

The seemed to be the right answer. Sark had always been good at finding them.

“To retrieve a map that is said to lead to a Rambaldi artifact. We are sending you and Miss Thorne to Los Angeles.”

Sark had hoped for somewhere more exotic, but he saw immediately that this was simply yet another test for Sydney. They’d let her think she’d passed after the assassination, and were now monitoring her to see if she’d been faking. Sark knew because he’d recently undergone a similar mission, having been forced to deal with one of Irina’s holding companies. He could have contacted her for an extraction if he’d wanted to, if he’d been an idiot.

Sark was to be Sydney’s Irina—the bait that they knew she would not be able to resist if she were still herself.

* * *

‘Julia’ was delightful company. She retained all of Sydney’s efficiency, resourcefulness and sarcasm, but with none of the weight of duty that had always kept her rather dour. She shook Sark’s hand and smiled when they were introduced. 

They were to impersonate an entertainment lawyer and a magazine editor—newlyweds just returned from their honeymoon and moving into a recently purchased house. Sark watched her out of the corner of his eye as she listened to their briefing. She held herself differently, asked different kinds of questions than she had during their briefings at SD-6. She asked the kinds of questions he would have—about access points and escape routes, with nary a thought to the safety of civilians or the use of tranquilizers as opposed to deadly force. She asked the questions of a true contract killer.

“I’ve never been to LA before,” she said with convincing eagerness (or was it brazen baiting?) during the flight. “You’ll have to show me around.”

Sark didn’t know what to think.

* * *

Julia was delightful company, but not half as interesting as Sark had always found Sydney.

And she’d been prettier as a brunette.

“What are we listening to?” he asked as she drove their rented Rolls through Beverly Hills. 

“It’s this band I always liked when I was growing up,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the road. “Don’t change it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sark said when her fingers forcibly prevented his from changing the dial.

It was obvious who wore the pants in this marriage.

He tried to recall what Allison had told him of Sydney’s and Francie’s habits, to see if this was honestly a band she had liked. But Sark had never paid attention to popular music; even if such information had featured in a report, he wouldn’t have been able to place with song with the band name.

He decided to believe what he wanted. He decided to believe this was part of Sydney. 

“How long have you worked for the Covenant?” she asked as they disabled the security mechanism of the mansion that was their destination.

“Not long,” he replied, somewhat dreamily, the way a brainwashed version of himself should have. “I was inducted only a month or so before you.”

“What did you do before?”

“I honestly don’t remember. They told me I was in an accident, and that is why my memory has patches.”

Sark saw her flinch, but then again, it could have simply been from the exertion of prying open the door. 

“You were there when I was inducted, weren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you at the back of the room.”

“I didn’t think you noticed me,” he said with a smile.

She paused for a moment, and then, hesitantly, almost as though she were testing something out, she said, “I notice cute guys.”

Sark steeled himself for a blow, because Sydney Bristow would never pay him a compliment that was not immediately followed by violence.

But the blow never came.

In any other circumstance, Sark would have found this delicious—the idea that he was to serve as irresistible bait for Sydney Bristow—but as the mission proceeded, Julia failed to take that bait. She failed to turn on him at the first, then second, then third chance. What Sark would not have given to have her shoot him, just to show that she was still there.

* * *

After a successful mission, they retired to their separate rooms in the hotel that their handlers had booked for them, and which Sark knew was located only a few minutes walk from Sydney’s old apartment. No coincidence, he was sure. They wanted to see what she would do. This was to be her final test.

“I’m going to head in early,” she said with a yawn.

“Well, it was a pleasure working with you,” he said, honestly. “You are very good. It’s refreshing to meet a true professional.”

That got some reaction out of her, a faint one.

“Yeah, we… That went really well. We actually make a good team, I guess. Night, Sark.”

How he’d sometimes fantasized about hearing her say that, without murder or irony in her voice.

He followed her, of course, when she went for a walk instead of going to bed. She expertly evaded her monitors, made a phone call, and then headed to a hotel downtown, where she stayed for some time. Sark wondered with whom she was meeting. When she finally emerged, in a very Sydney-like huff of determination, he followed. She stole a car and drove it to an address that Sark remembered, though he could not place why. When he watched her park in the shadows, staring at a doorway, and then saw Michael Vaughn appear, he understood. 

Sydney was no more brainwashed than he was. She never had been.

He was still processing all the ramifications of this revelation when a blonde appeared and proceeded to kiss Vaughn. 

Sark was too far away, and Sydney was too well hidden to see Sydney’s face, but he could imagine her expression.

He drove back to the hotel, mind whirring.

* * *

Hours later, he heard a knock on his door. 

He dragged himself out of bed, pulled the gun out from under his pillow, and looked through the peephole.

Sydney stood outside, looking small and distorted through the convex glass.

“Is everything all right?” he asked after opening the door.

“Can I come in?” 

“Of course.”

One of his first thoughts was that this was all part of an elaborate test for _him_ , long after he thought he’d passed all of them. What if they had sent Julia on a Sydney-like drive, all in an attempt to see if _he_ would break? But watching as Sydney slouched around his room, he was certain this was real. Sydney had done an excellent job over the past few days of pretending to be Julia—she’d mostly fooled even him—but this real. Sark had spent his life around agents, excellent actors all. He knew that the redness around her eyes could not be faked, nor the drunken, despairing slouch to her shoulders. This was real grief, real heartbreak— _Sydney’s_ heartbreak.

What she was doing in his room, though, he couldn’t say. 

“Is everything all right?” he asked again, standing in the room as she finally slumped onto the couch. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought seeing a familiar face might help. Even if it was yours.”

“And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

She frowned. “We were. You’re right. Ignore me.”

For the first time since he’d been introduced to Julia, she was slipping. Sark had never liked Michael Vaughn, but right now he loathed the man. Someone so utterly ordinary had no business causing an otherwise masterfully constructed and maintained façade to crack like this. 

Sark sat down beside her. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Something like that.”

“I would offer you a drink, but I have a feeling you’ve already had one.”

“Four.”

“It sounds like quite a nightmare.”

Sydney stared at Sark for a minute, as though wondering herself what she was doing here. Finally, she said, “I’ll still take a drink, if you’ve got anything in here.”

Sark rummaged through the bar area. One of the benefits of working for the Covenant—however unwillingly—was its generous expense account. His room had come stocked with a bottle of 1999 Dom Perignon, which Sark had been too busy following Sydney around town to open this evening. 

He popped the cork and poured two flutes. 

“To the beginning of a fruitful partnership,” he said, handing one to her.

She clicked her glass against his, studying him all the while. 

“Sure,” she said, shaking her head. 

Sark knew she was thinking of all the times she’d vowed only to work with him ‘over her dead body’. In a way, he supposed, she’d been right. He’d read of her passing, and the funeral, months ago.

“I can’t wait to get out of LA,” she said next, and with honest bitterness.

“Where would you rather be?”

“Anywhere else.” She took a large sip and repositioned herself into a more comfortable position—a more hesitant version of the position he’d watched surveillance tapes of her assuming with her friends, before all this. “Is there anywhere you’d rather be?”

“Not really. This hotel is as comfortable as anywhere else. Though somewhere higher up, with a balcony and a view… That might be nice. Keeping all other variables the same, of course.”

“What are the other variables?” she asked, and there it was, the Bristow smile, peeping out just for him. Probably only because she was certain it wasn’t him, and she knew she wasn’t her, not technically. 

“The wine, of course,” he replied. “The company is also passable.” 

“I’ll show you passable.”

A couch cushion was the least dangerous projectile she’d ever thrown at him.

By her second glass of champagne, on top of whatever she had drunk before, Sydney had flopped over. He moved her to his bed and took the couch.

Letting the Covenant think they were sleeping together would convince them utterly that they had succeeded in conditioning her. Sydney Bristow would never do such a thing, not with Sark.

* * *

‘Julia’ become even more in evidence after that night. Sydney wore the mask with her usual steely determination. Dr. Madrczyk received a promotion within the organization for such a job well-done.

Unbeknownst to the Covenant, though, Sydney was working for Kendall again. It didn’t take long for Sark to figure that out, but he knew Sydney in a way that none of these people did.

Covering for her the missions Sydney’s double agency purposefully botched, without letting her know he was doing so, was exhausting. But it was in Sark’s best interest to support actions might one day result in the destruction of the Covenant and his release from their servitude.

His efforts to cover for her little ‘mistakes’ led to reprimands that she never endured, nor even found out about. Still, they were less severe than what she would have faced had she been caught.

In a way, he supposed, Sark truly had become the blindly loyal, self-sacrificing asset the Covenant believed they had brainwashed him into being.

But he was still serving himself, above all.

* * *

After almost a year’s worth of intimate aliases, interminable flights, faulty mission tech, and close quarters, he and Sydney—Julia, no, dammit, Sydney—had built up a rather impressive collection of private jokes, secret facial signals, and little games they played to pass the dull hours of a stakeout. Sydney often shared with him stories (with the names changed, of course) that he knew from having trained Allison to be true. Sydney had never known enough about him to guess that the stories he shared in return were equally true.

Sark had watched enough films on airplanes and studied enough surveillance tapes of civilians to feel confident that this resembled friendship.

“We passed a café awhile ago that I want to try. You up for it?” she asked as they drove away from rendezvous. The real disk was in her pocket, and a false one in his. 

(And a copy of the real one in the glove compartment, for him to hand over to their superiors while she ran off to meet Kendall later. He knew what would happen if the Covenant received the wrong file.)

“Is it a date?” he asked.

She eyed him questioningly. “Are you asking me out?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she said.

“Neither did you.”

* * *

“I can take the couch tonight,” he said later, after a very nice time at the café, during which she had laughed so hard that wine had dribbled from her nose—more adorable than disgusting, because Sark knew _he_ had rendered her thus.

“Or we can share it together,” she replied. 

At her unexpected suggestion, he looked up from the shoes he’d been untying. 

“What?” she asked, seeing his surprise.

“I kick in my sleep,” he said, a lie to buy him time to think. 

She smiled—a real smile, just for him. “I was shot at today. I think I can handle you.”

Sark thought he had an idea what had motivated this. The timing could not have been an accident. He’d read the wedding announcement in the paper a few weeks before. She’d been simmering with something ever since, and tonight, it seemed to have boiled over. Though whether with desperation or readiness to move on, he couldn’t tell, and desperately wanted to know.

They lay in the dark, each breathing almost silently. 

“I’ve been pretending to date you, or be married to you, or just flirting with you, for the past year,” she suddenly said.

“And you do it well,” he said, wondering where this was going.

“Not well enough.” And then she was kissing him and tasting of the toothpaste they had just shared. Her full lips were chapped against his thin ones, and her breath hot on his face. “Not enough to make it real. I want something to be real. I want _this_ to be real. I must be crazy, but I do.”

Sark didn’t care why she was doing this, so long as she was. 

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she was gone—hopping out of the bed and running away.

Sark switched on the light. 

“What happened?” he asked.

Sydney was pacing the room with her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, oh god, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, mostly to herself.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I shouldn’t have taken advantage…” she continued. “Not when you’re… I’m so sorry.”

“I’m perfectly sober. You didn’t...” 

But then it dawned on him. She hadn’t stopped because the disgusting reality of kissing Sark had caught up with her. She’d stopped because she wanted him to want her, Sydney, not Julia. Which meant… She actually wanted this.

“Then there is no impediment and no need for regret. I want whatever you have to give.”

He remained perfectly still as she crept back towards him. He let her run her hands over his face, claiming all of his features, one by one. He lay back and let her climb on him again, pressing kisses into her neck as she collapsed on top of him and began to cry.

“What do you want from me?” he whispered, continuing to hold her and let himself be held. 

“I want you,” she choked. “That’s all. I want you to be Sark.”

“You’re in luck.”

He let her make all the advances and take her comfort at her own pace. He let her strip off first his tee-shirt, then his pajamas. He tangled his fingers in her hair and let her climb on top of him, let her take all the control she needed. Only when she seemed more relaxed did he flip her over and slink down her body, sliding his open mouth, inch by inch across the flesh that was revealed as he pulled her underwear down.

“Sark…” she moaned as his tongue slipped past the thin fabric.

He’d never been so grateful to the Covenant as he was right now, for allowing him to keep his name. 

As the months passed, he found increasingly inspired ways not to have to say hers. He’d be damned if he called her Julia ever again, not now that she was his.

* * *

And then, one day, it was over, just as abruptly and fantastically as it had begun. 

“You’ll be partnered with someone new for this mission,” his handlers announced.

“Miss Thorne…”

“Miss Thorne is dead.”

Sark displayed just as little emotion as was expected from him, and listened quietly to his new assignment; Covenant agents did not care, and they did not mourn. But his blankness was not due to any remarkable acting ability. Instead, it stemmed from a complete disbelief of the statement. Sydney Bristow died on the regular. It never stuck. 

He called Irina that evening. He’d been with the Covenant for so long that they never saw his defection coming. All it took was proof that Sark had been with Sydney for two years, had protected her… Within two weeks, Sark was free and everyone he had spent the past two years with was dead. 

“She is back in Los Angeles, with the CIA,” Irina said as they drove away. 

“This is hardly news,” Sark quipped. “She never stopped working for the CIA. Not even when she was with the Covenant.”

“She doesn’t remember that. She doesn’t remember working for the Covenant. She doesn’t remember betraying them to the CIA. We don’t know what happened to her between your last mission and the night she returned to the CIA, but she doesn’t remember a single thing about the past two years. Sark… She doesn’t remember you.”

Sark didn’t bother to ask how she knew, despite not having been told. But he quietly thanked her for putting it as bluntly as possible. He liked his wounds clean and quickly cauterized. 

“She does remember me, if I understand this correctly. She remembers the man she fought.” The person he had never ceased to be.

“You’ll have to start over with her.”

“No,” he said. “I simply have to continue.”


End file.
